


Mistletoe Misadventures

by HowNowWit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Clexa, F/F, Feelings, Fluff, Mistletoe, POV Second Person, Pining, Snow, So much pining Lexa grew a coniferous forest all by herself, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNowWit/pseuds/HowNowWit
Summary: "Clarke, how exactly does a plant dictate the sharing of affection?"





	Mistletoe Misadventures

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Spring! Here, have a Christmas fic.

 

It tapers into a point and you’re not sure if it’s a device meant more for revelry or for punishment.

 

“It’s a hat.”

 

You stare at the bulbous white ball on the end.

 

“It goes on your head.”

 

“I’m aware of the purpose of a hat, Clarke.” You rub your fingers against the strange fabric, soft and worn and a gaudy red the shade of freshly spilt blood. “What I don’t understand is how this one is useful.”

 

“It’s a Santa Claus hat,” Clarke says, ever patient. She takes the object from your hands and places it atop your head. A few tugs, an adjustment, and you watch—unable to look anywhere else for she blocks your field of vision—as her jaw hangs slightly slack while she concentrates. “There,” she says, standing back with a victorious smile.

 

The white ball irritates your temple. You feel ridiculous.

 

You raise an eyebrow and her smile quivers at the edges. A cross of your arms, and she bites her lip, suppressing laughter.

 

“Christmas comes with tradition,” she says. The words aren’t half as convincing when distorted by humor.

 

You push the red and white from your vision. “Did this Santa Claus traditionally steep her hat in the blood of slain warriors to better intimidate her foes?”

 

Clarke’s eyes widen. “ _No_. No. It’s for kids.”

 

You balk. “She killed _children_?”

 

She catches your elbow to stop your retreat, a gentle touch more playful than forceful, and you give a subtle shake of your head to deter the tensed guard from action.

 

“ _He_ is a myth perpetuated to make children happy. And behave.” She releases her hold, but remains standing close, the cloud of her breath hovering in the space between before rising to the heavens.

 

You roll your shoulders, feeling the phantom weight of your swords. “Or else he would slay them?”

 

“Let’s move away from the slaying. No one dies. Well…” She hesitates but upon seeing your raised eyebrow, moves on. “…never mind. At Christmas each year, Santa brought toys to boys and girls who were good. Bad children got nothing. Or coal.”

 

You frown. “How does one judge placement into the subjective categories?”

 

Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose, but her gaze is fond. “Lexa.” It’s half admonishment, half exasperation. You’re imagining the affection.

 

“Clarke.”

 

“It’s for fun, Lexa. Ultimately, Christmas was about family and being together and happy.” She glances to the other potential revelers milling about the clearing.

 

Some rummage through the musty crates recently scrounged from the depths of _Skaikru_ storage. Others sit around campfires, bundled in furs and boots, their laughter loose and free among the chatter. With the end of autumn and the necessity of trade to equip _Skaikru_ for survival through winter’s freeze, the distinction between peoples is less obvious—still discernable, to those attuned to the economy of motion any _Trikru_ possesses, but it feels like progress. Most here are _Skaikru_ , but a few _Trikru_ mingle among the crowd, curious and willing to learn.

 

“I think we could all use some of that,” Clarke continues, almost absently, drawing your gaze once more. “Happiness. Together. Christmas came with traditions,” she repeats, this time with a soft voice and even softer eyes, and you find it hard to look away. “It’ll be nice to bring a bit of normalcy while people settle in. Not everyone celebrates it, but enough do—and enough remember it—that it may provide some comfort in this new world we’re building.”

 

You nod. This you can understand. The poofy ball falls into your eyes again with the movement, and Clarke reaches up to adjust once more.

 

“You look good in this,” she comments as her arms bracket your face and shut out the world. Shut out everything except round cheeks and a dimpled chin, a brow furrowed in concentration. “Shame we don’t have a full suit.”

 

She steps back and admires her handiwork once more. By now you’ve drawn attention to yourselves, and you resist the urge to snatch the thing from your head when more than a few people stare. _Your_ people. And hers, but yours are more wary and you weigh the consequences of improper conduct against the pleasure in her smile.

 

“We’re lucky Monty found the decorations at all.”

 

_Yes_ , you think, scratching where the brim digs into your forehead. _Lucky_.

 

But her smile is full and radiant, and you forget the discomfort and the burn of curious scrutiny.

 

You stride by her side towards one of the fires, the ring of revelers quieting at your approach. A few of your warriors give you respectful nods while some of the _Skaikru_ watch you with—not quite mistrust, but a wariness you suspect will be long to fade.

 

And then there is Raven.

 

“Hey, Commander.” Raven leans back on her arms, back braced against a log, and eyes you up and down. The silence is palpable. “Nice hat.” Sarcasm layers her words and you do not deign to respond. Her grin turns mischievous as her eyes dart to Clarke then back to you. “Can I sit on your lap?”

 

“Ignore her.” Clarke ushers you to the other side of the fire, toward a log that suddenly has more than enough room for two.

 

“I’ve been good,” Raven calls, voice laced with suggestion, and a few chuckles are muffled into mittens and strangled into coughs.

 

Conversations recommence as you shuffle into a spot, whatever tension your arrival had garnered dissipating at your lack of reaction. Your warriors relax their postures in gradual degrees, perplexed at your allowance of the girl’s insolence.

 

You ignore them. It is the Winter Solstice, and tonight is a time for peace and revelry. You do not care for petty quarrels or misconceptions, especially on this eve of tentative beginnings, with war a heavy heartache only recently locked away into memory.

 

You plan to keep it that way.

 

Raven continues to smirk across the fire, and you remove the hat, throw it with deadly accuracy so she is forced to fumble with the fabric to protect her face.

 

“I am sure there are plenty who would love to sit on your lap,” you say, holding her incredulous glare with aplomb.

 

The chuckles are more pronounced this time around, and the rose in Raven’s cheeks is due to more than just the cold. She concedes with a grumble, donning the atrocious hat like a badge of honor.

 

But you are more occupied with Clarke’s hand, which has come to rest on your forearm with a gentle squeeze, her laughter a subdued, throaty vibration next to your ear.

 

“Good one,” she murmurs, her attention on Raven as she makes a face at another teasing _Skaikru_.

 

For a moment, however brief, you allow yourself to watch, to study her relaxed smile, the way skin creases just a bit at the corners with mirth. The play of firelight across a proud brow, the flutter of eyelashes against cheeks grown rosy with cold and round with laughter.

 

You allow a moment, and that is enough.

 

“Commander.”

 

The call draws your gaze to a young _Skaikru_ boy to your right. Too young to be drinking what you suspect sloshes inside his cradled mug.

 

“Cider?” he offers and confirms your suspicions, holding out a second cup.

 

Again the tension in your warriors—so palpable to you, as attuned to them as you are, yet you wonder if these _Skaikru_ are even aware. Based on the slight increased pressure of Clarke’s hand, barely perceptible, you suspect she at least notices the undercurrents. The thought is both sobering and heartening. Like Octavia, she is one of the pioneering few whose mind seems more open to learning, absorbing and adapting to the new rather than stubbornly clinging to the old.

 

“I do not imbibe,” you reply. And even if you did, it would not be from a cup untested. There is trust, and then there is stupidity. Even allies must earn the former.

 

He shakes his head with a shrug and takes a healthy gulp, as if to say _more for me_. “Party pooper.”

 

When his attention rests elsewhere, you are left alone, the festivities and buoyancy of the evening continuing unabated, and it is a simple joy all its own, to only sit and exist in the moment with no tug of duty or immediate burden of responsibility. Just the willing presence of Clarke at your side and the steady steam of your breaths mingling in wispy clouds.

 

Her apparent ease in your presence is a balm, and you take a moment to consider the enormity of your shared history, the events that have led to here and now on the eve of the longest night. You think of _almost_ s and regrets, the slow bloom of potential, still a bud waiting for an eventual spring to sprout. _Always waiting_ , you think, with an ageless sort of resignation.

 

Patience is a skill at which you are adept.

 

“Why do they sit like that?” Clarke shifts closer, and you follow her line of sight to a _Trikru_ across the way, straddling a tree stump to sit sideways to the fire as she speaks with her companion. He faces outward, back to the flames in a casual slouch and eyes on the tree line.

 

“To look directly at the flames hinders one’s night vision. This way, we have the benefit of warmth while also maintaining vigilance for our surroundings. Even in daylight, it is a skill often practiced. One never knows what may lurk in the shadows.”

 

Clarke shifts her scarf higher along her throat, tucking her chin beneath the fabric. “Always wary of danger.”

 

“It is how one survives,” you say.

 

Your wording harkens to a different time, one not long past, when dire decisions and hopeless violence reigned, and as Clarke’s eyes flick to yours, you know her mind travels a similar path.

 

The acknowledgment passes between you, wordless and sobering. But it holds not the melancholy you expect.

 

It is possible, you realize, to know the past and yet grow beyond it.

 

“Got it!” Shouts of surprise and joy follow the announcement, and across the clearing, a _Skaikru_ boy holds a bundle of green leaves aloft, ostensibly discovered in the same box as the offensive hat. “Who’s first?”

 

Without waiting for a response, he darts to a pair of _Skaikru_ standing together and dangles the prize above their heads, shaking it for emphasis. The two glance up, then back at each other with shy smiles. They lean in, meet in the middle for a chaste kiss, and the _Skaikru_ boy is off again.

 

You observe it all with raised eyebrows. A strange custom.

 

The ritual continues, some more willing participants than others.

 

You turn to Clarke, who is watching the happenings with an amused smile, gaze distant.

 

“Clarke, how exactly does a plant dictate the sharing of affection?”

 

She blinks, returning from wherever her mind had wandered. “It’s…ah, it’s mistletoe.” She says it as though that should mean something to you, and then shakes her head. “Tradition has it if two people are standing under mistletoe, then it’s bad luck if they don’t kiss.”

 

“The gods are displeased by a refusal to pair when the plant demands?” You spare a thought for what other aspects of romance may fall under such scrutiny if a mere kiss is so regulated. Maybe that explains the odd shyness so many of your people have noted in these ones from the sky.

 

“Not—it’s not that severe. More of a superstition than anything. And it’s just a kiss, not—” Clarke cuts herself off, and you are privy to the rare sight of the rosy hue of her cheeks deepening as her eyes meet yours then rest on the flickering flames. “As a joke, some would trick unsuspecting couples into kissing.”

 

“Even if one is in a committed relationship with another?”

 

“Well…it’s…that’s not how it works. Usually they wouldn’t be that cruel. If you know two people fancy each other, you make them kiss to give them a push in the right direction.” Her eyes flicker away from yours once more. “That kind of thing.”

 

As the boy gradually wanders closer, you recognize the thin leaves and white berries, though this appears a replica. A confusing choice for a plant to inspire romance. “ _Choj jaka_ ,” you supply, drawing Clarke’s attention. “It is parasitic. Grows within trees, and can slowly starve them of nutrients if given time. All parts are poisonous.”

 

Something flashes in her eyes. “Right. Of course you would know that.”

 

She appears disgruntled. Did you say something wrong?

 

You watch her for a moment, trying to ascertain if your words or actions may have contributed to her current discomfort. If, perhaps, you insulted a sacred belief with the casual callousness of an ignorant outsider. But you cannot apologize if you do not know what you did wrong.

 

The thought makes you stutter to a mental halt, stumbling over the idea that you, _Heda_ , would so readily admit a wrong. Apologies are never given lightly—their inherent power, and transference of said power, make them dangerous—and yet it would not be the first time you apologized to Clarke. Nor will it be the last, you suspect, as you watch her let out a deep breath and scan the tree line with distant eyes.

 

Not for the first time, you wish some insight into the thoughts and processes of her mind. To give meaning to expressions you’ve seen so often, so you may better know—not only how best to respond, but to know _her_. To have some reference with which to read the purpose of her sigh, the reason for a grimace, the key behind a chuckle or the inscrutable depth of a steady cobalt gaze, much like she turns on you now.

 

Ah, for a scrap of translatable text to guide your floundering steps.

 

But there is no map to chart a course of the heart. Of that, you are too aware. It is a path best traveled alone.

 

You steer your mind away from such a dangerous course, even as you hold her gaze. As you watch, the storm abates somewhat and cloudy eyes turn clear, like chicory beneath a summer sun.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with you at all.

 

For some reason, the thought is not a comfort.

 

You bury it under deep lungfuls of fresh winter air that burn and renew. Your senses tingle in warning, and you close your eyes to better chase the feeling to its source. It will snow soon. If not this evening, then overnight. _Early, this year_ , you observe, opening your eyes once more. It will be a harsh winter.

 

At Clarke’s questioning look, you say, “It smells of snow.”

 

“Snow?”

 

A ring of eager faces around the fire direct their attention to you, their smiles like pups eager for the first hunt. Innocent in their naiveté. Too often you forget their lack of experience in this world. For all their bumbling bravado and deadly weaponry, they are but children in many ways.

 

Very well. Learning takes one step at a time. Provide the shoes and let them stumble.

 

You gesture to the heavens, where low-hanging clouds appear to skirt the treetops, thick and heavy as wet cotton. The crispness to the air, coupled with the weighty pressure in your head, ears, skin—it is telling.

 

It is a skill easier to acquire than teach, but you gather your words anyway and attempt to mold them into a manageable whole.

  
A few appear less confused than others as you explain, Clarke among them. “Like any skill,” you remind, “it takes practice and patience.”

 

Raven eyes you with wary insouciance, the Santa hat askew at a jaunty angle as she converses with one of your ken. The keenness in her gaze, however, belies her apparent lack of interest. She hears, and you know she listens, but you allow her the distance of feigned indifference.

 

“There are those with old wounds whose aches can presage a storm’s approach better than any foreteller.”

 

“Or not so old wounds,” Raven speaks up, rubbing her thigh.

 

You incline your head, and make a mental note to introduce Raven to one of your healers. For all of _Skaikru_ ’s prowess with _tek_ , there are some remedies one cannot find except in the wizened lore of those adept at extracting the secrets of the forest—and the flora within.

 

Raven does not appear to have an issue with _Trikru_ in general, only you, and it is a mercurial one at that. So be it. Perhaps you will encourage Emory, her current companion, to provide such counsel and it would be better received.

 

That settled, you turn your thoughts to more pleasant matters. Beside you, Clarke inhales and glances to the murky grey sky, to the rolling clouds you described. The firelight casts eyelash shadows across the curves of her cheeks.

 

Now this… This is a sight you are glad not to miss.

 

“Snow,” she says under her breath, part wonder and part curiosity, and you glean a bit of that wonder for yourself, a glance of the world through new eyes. A shiver overtakes her, violent enough to feel where her thigh presses yours, soon followed by her shoulder as she draws closer.

 

“Is the apparel satisfactory?”

 

She clasps her mittened hands lets out an amused huff. “Always so formal,” she murmurs, just for you, and you aren’t imagining the teasing in her voice. “But yes.” She flicks her eyes along your frame. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”

 

You are admittedly less bundled than her, with minimal coat and gloves and boots compared to her scarf and double layers. “This is relatively mild weather as of yet. When it gets further below freezing, then you will see thicker wool or downy coats.”

 

“It gets colder than this?”

 

“Much.” You don’t know why you use that tone, soft and open for interpretation, but the moment feels insular and Clarke has yet to draw away from you.

 

A tick of her mouth. “Maybe I should—”

 

“Mistletoe!”

 

The call startles Clarke, who jumps. You remain still, having heard the approaching crunch of sloppy footsteps, but the predicament you now find yourself in makes your heart pound just the same.

 

The romance plant dangles overhead, green and bright and taunting in the clutches of the idiotic _Skayon_. He grins.

 

“C’mon, Clarke. Give ’er a smooch!”

 

Sometimes you detest _Gonasleng_ when mutilated by careless mouths. And this one is either very stupid or very reckless.

 

A small wave of your hand holds your guards at bay. You feel their tension on the edge of your awareness, hear murmurings or jeers or interest from others around the fire, but the majority of your attention lies on Clarke, who searches your gaze after frowning briefly at the plant.

 

You cannot read her expression, cannot read the range of emotions that flicker across her eyes as she hesitates. The decision must be difficult, you realize, perhaps obligation warring with reluctance? The many watching eyes and the taunting of the _Skayon_ heighten the prickle of anxious anticipation.

 

There is no pressing reason for you to refuse. No political reason, that is, with the new alliance and the real possibility of _Skaikru_ assimilation on the not so distant horizon. But personal, emotional reasons—those are completely different.

 

So you are cautious. This is Clarke’s tradition, and you will leave it to Clarke to decide. You let your eyes say as much.

 

After another moment of study, she leans forward and kisses you.

 

It is but a second in a lifetime of seconds. A measure of heartbeats, her lips pressed to yours. They linger for only a moment, and you stay still, perfectly still, to absorb what you may with the kind of heightened perception you associate with the making of memories, for you know this is all you may have. So you stay still, to not offend, and then it is over.

 

Quick as the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

 

When you open your eyes, Clarke is watching you. The _Skayon_ moves away to his next victims while the exclamations of those surrounding swirl about and eventually fade with their waning interest. Still, Clarke watches, and you don’t know what she’s waiting for.

 

You try for lighthearted, easy. Offer a cautious smile. “I hope the gods are not displeased.”

 

Again that flicker in blue eyes, but this time they shutter at what they see, and she looks away.

 

She grows silent as the minutes pass. She sits subdued and stares into the flames of the fire, elbows on knees, body loose, but in a way that is more distancing than any stiffness. You have upset her again. You want to reach out, want to inquire with voice or touch what has disturbed her previous joy, but with each urge you refrain because you no longer know what would be welcome and what not.

 

Suddenly, she dips her head to the ground, eyes closed. A deep breath heaves her chest, and then she pushes up, striding away.

 

Across the dancing flames, Raven watches her departure then regards you. Her warning glare issues a silent challenge.

 

You rise and follow. Your guards will ensure you are left alone, if the tacit command you shoot to Aren is any judge.

 

Into the pines you plunge. It is a familiar and welcome embrace, but your focus lies ahead, to the steady _thump thump thump_ of boots.

 

Clarke walks with more care than her brethren, each step quieter and surer than the usual heavy _Skaikru_ tread. She has learned well, and you take a moment to appreciate the ease with which she navigates the forests of your home. But she makes no effort to disguise her trail, and you know she senses your presence despite your silent tracking, though she makes no acknowledgement. She walks on, and apprehension gathers in your gut with every step, swirls in your veins like the chilly wind through the branches above.

 

She comes to a halt near a creek, its icy flow a constant purl amidst the wintry hush of the pines. It is far enough away that the laughter and life of the celebrations is but a memory. Rustlings of various creatures sound in the distance, but nothing else disturbs the quiet as you too pause, giving her space.

 

Many long moments later, her voice parts the silence.

 

“It feels strange.”

 

She stands and gazes into the shadows of the forest, and you watch her wrap her arms around her middle—for warmth or comfort or contemplation, you don’t know.

  
“What does?” you ask, trying and failing to read her tone, wishing she would turn so you could glean her thoughts.

 

“Knowing it’s over.” She shifts her weight back onto her heels and lets out a cloudy breath, tilts her face towards the heavens. “Smiling without wondering if it’ll be my last. Thinking beyond. To a future.”

 

_Ah_. The precipitous transition from war to peace is a familiar experience, a profound shift in mindset that leaves one floundering, leaves nightmares and anxiety even after the monsters are slain and the waters have calmed.

 

The crush of fallen needles beneath your boots releases a pungent aroma, almost sweet, but it remains subdued by the icy chill of winter air.

 

“Time.”

 

Clarke turns at last, catches your gaze as you approach. The surrounding silence guides your voice, keeps it soft, for this moment feels fragile, important, and you will treat it as one does the delicate first blooms of May.

 

“Time is a commodity we don’t appreciate until it is taken from us. And it is one your people have never possessed on the ground until now.” You clasp your hands behind your back and watch the shimmer of her eyes. “It is also what will help heal, help grow.”

 

“Time heals all wounds,” Clarke quotes absently, and it appears some idioms span time and space in their universality. But the way Clarke studies you, glances away with a hard expression, is telling.

 

“A misnomer,” you acknowledge, remembering blood and betrayal and hardship with a palpable ache, “but there is some truth there.”

 

A breeze wends through the trees, and Clarke hunches her shoulders against the chill. You fight the urge to draw closer, to lessen her discomfort. It is not your place.

 

“Not all wounds,” you hear her sigh. Some of the previous agitation you sensed now simmers to the surface, clouding her expression.

 

You think of the Santa hat and her former gaiety, try to reconcile it with this Clarke before you, closed off and troubled. “Have I upset you?”

 

She seems unable to meet your eyes.

 

“Didn’t want the gods to be displeased,” she says, a sarcastic bitterness twisting her lips. You frown, but Clarke raises a hand and shakes her head, apologetic, before you can respond. “It’s my fault, Lexa. I thought—” She cuts herself off and glances at you, shoulders drooping. “I read things wrong. It doesn’t matter.”

 

Your heartbeat quickens.

 

_It does matter_.

 

You don’t realize you’ve spoken aloud until Clarke meets your gaze, curious, probing. The connection is sudden and unexpected, but not unwelcome.

 

“If it matters to you, then it is important.” The conviction in your voice must startle her, for she blinks a few times, and the murkiness there clears until she not only looks, but _see_ s you.

 

You regard each other across the small span of distance.

 

She opens her mouth to speak, but a speck of white drifts between you and forestalls her reply. Clarke stares at it, follows its path to the ground first in confusion, then in wonder.

 

All about you, snowflakes drift from the sky, tiny specks that disappear upon contact. The world seems to hold its breath, suspended. The first snowfall. Clarke is enchanted, but you are more taken by the expressions of delight that cross her face, the way she transforms with awe and wonder.

 

Removing a mitten, she holds out her hand, catches a snowflake on her palm, watches it melt. You imagine the sharp spark of soft cold, just as she looks up at you, her lips quirked in a disbelieving smile.

 

“Snow,” she says, eyes alight, and looks to the sky.

 

She laughs, and it is a beautiful sound, rich and warm and innocent.

 

Your heart clenches in the most painfully pleasant of ways.

 

“Here,” you say, wrapping her white-benumbed fingers between your gloved hands. “You will catch cold.” The air does not yet feel icy enough for frostbite, but you do not want to take chances.

 

You both watch as you pull her mitten back on, adjusting the fabric with a bit more focus than necessary. You feel her curious eyes as she studies you.

 

“Why did you follow me, Lexa?”

Your fingers slow their progress, until you are merely holding her hand in yours.

 

_Because I miss your smile. Because I care_ , e _ven though I shouldn’t_. _Because I—_

 

Her eyes dance between yours, unafraid and wistful, and you begin to reevaluate the previous misconception borne beneath _Skaikru_ mistletoe, begin to wonder if _maybe_ s and _someday_ s can be salvaged, after all.

 

Clarke swallows and glances down, begins to draw away.

 

Patience is a skill at which you are adept. But you also know when to act.

 

You step forward into her space, curl a hand around the curve of her jaw, and press your lips to hers. Her sharp inhale rushes across your cheek, and you hang in a suspended moment where there is only this: you kissing Clarke, taking a chance. And you are both terrified and exultant.

 

Then there are hands at your waist and curves against your curves. She tilts her head, and you can’t help the hitch of breath at the back of your throat when she kisses you back, eager and soft and slow.

 

Your fingers tangle in her hair—gloves are unruly in the best of times—but it doesn’t matter because the glide of her lips is a bright spark of heat against the surrounding chill, the tip of her nose a sharp nip of cold along your own. And you are unable to manage the conflicting, overwhelming rush of emotion through your chest.

 

“Clarke,” you murmur, words failing you, and she rests her forehead against yours. Your breath mingles, swirls white and ghostly.

 

“Yeah,” she says, her breathy laugh a vibration along your cheek. You pull away, and a hand tightens around your waist, keeping you close.

 

When you open your eyes, she is smiling, one of those open and shy and full ones that you don’t know what to do with. You only know you want to see it again.

 

A snowflake catches on her lashes, makes her blink, and you brush it away with a thumb.

 

“I thought—” She shakes her head and smoothes a finger along your lower lip. Your small smile draws an answering one from her. “I’m glad you followed me.”

 

You can forge new worlds and level armies, but a smile from a beautiful woman renders you speechless. You’re not sure words can do what you feel justice, so instead you simply look, appreciate.

 

“God. Those eyes,” she says, and leans in again, presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your lips.

 

The ache in your chest has subsided, replaced instead by something light and heavy and expansive all at once. You try to identify it, give this strange emotion a name.

 

When you feel Clarke smile against your skin, you think you find it.

 

Happy.

 

You are happy.

 

“I want this.”

 

It is a strange phrase to utter. _I want_. You can’t remember the last time you admitted such, the last time you allowed yourself to desire. It feels freeing, but so immense. Because there are so many _but_ s and _no_ s and potential obstacles.

 

Her smile widens, quivers, and there is a sheen to her blue eyes that she is quick to blink away. “I want this, too,” she agrees with a jerky nod.

 

You are in awe of this precious gift.

 

You draw her close again, gentle, careful. Tuck your chin over the crook of her neck and close your eyes with a long sigh as you relax into the embrace. The obstacles can wait.

 

“Merry Christmas, Lexa.”

 

You smile and feel a spark of hope kindle to life.

 

“Spirit’s Blessing, Clarke.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my good friend polotiz's prompt: "Canon Lexa in a Santa Hat. And: 'Clarke, how exactly does a plant dictate the sharing of affection?'" I know it's a few months late, but hopefully it was worth the wait. :)
> 
> This was an enlightening and novel experience, to get inside canon-Lexa’s mindset. I may explore it further in the future. For now, I leave us here for this oneshot, so I may focus on my other unfinished fics. I hope you enjoyed this little snip-it. If so, please feel free to leave a comment, or visit my tumblr at hownowwit1.tumblr.com should you feel so obliged.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the read, friends,
> 
> Wit


End file.
